


Chain

by literaryspell



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM, D/s, M/M, chaining (it's what you think it is), filling fetish, not entirely explicit and yet not subtle D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's ass is Peter's--and Peter can do whatever he wants with what belongs to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain

 

Peter had an obsession.

Or rather, he had a number of obsessions that circled around one big obsession: Neal Caffrey. He was obsessed with _doing things_ to Neal—and the things Neal would _let_ him do…

Peter kissed the side of Neal's neck. It wasn’t the best way of showing affection, not at a moment like this, but Neal didn’t like soft kisses on the side of his neck or gentle cuddles after fucking (because Neal didn’t like making love). Neal liked it to hurt. And Peter… Peter just liked Neal. Or maybe that was the obsession talking.

"More," Neal grunted, even though the strain on his face indicated he couldn’t take another inch. His spine must have ached against the metal floor of the surveillance van.

Peter gave him an incredulous look and Neal tried to stare him down. The chain clinked on the floor between them.

The chain.

Peter's obsession with Neal had spawned an obsession with putting things inside Neal. It had started in the simplest of ways. A finger. Easy, normal for foreplay, necessary (most of the time) for fucking Neal. That finger, sliding, knuckles grinding against Neal's rim, Neal crying out and arching and _needing_ —it hadn't stopped with a finger. Fucking Neal delayed the need to fill him with _everything_ but only until Peter came and then Neal was empty… and Peter didn’t like that.

A butt plug. Neal had many but Peter wouldn’t use those. He bought his own, a twisty little thing that would rub Neal's prostate. Peter had to insert it himself—as often as possible. But it hadn't been long before the allure on that wore thin. Then it was things around the house—El's hairbrush handle (she never minded since she'd get to watch, and she loved spanking Neal with it after), the grip of Peter's screwdriver (aptly named and never the same), a decorative candle that was just wide enough for Neal to make that face—

—The one he was making now, with the chain. Like he couldn’t cope and didn’t want to. Like he was ready to give up to Peter.

Neal broke away from the staring contest first. Peter didn’t always win those, but when he did, he enjoyed it all the more. As a reward for being so good, Peter pressed another link of the thick silver chain inside Neal's already stuffed body. Neal _wailed_ —and his cock pulsed precome onto his belly. One of the links must have pressed against his prostate. Peter grinned.

The chain, like most other found objects Peter had to shove up Neal's ass, was just an ordinary thing—it had been used to keep some equipment stable inside the van. It was relatively clean though the links on the end outside Neal's body had a touch of rust to them. Peter had made Neal think that was the end going in, and while Neal had paled, his legs had still spread, and not for the first time Peter had been struck with the knowledge that Neal would let him do _anything._

"Feel good?" Peter asked, his voice gruff. He was breathing more heavily than Neal, whose chest was moving in tiny increments as if full lungs would hurt him, and maybe they would—filling him, putting pressure on his lower half. Peter didn’t know what was happening in Neal's body. He almost wished he could see. He wished he could X-ray Neal right now and hang in his office the image of a skeleton with three feet of chain coiled and bunched inside it. And everyone would know it was Neal because everyone knew Neal did anything Peter said.

"Yeah," Neal said. His face said no, his tight muscles and strained breathing said no, but Peter had learned to listen to Neal's cock. It was saying _more._

Another link and Peter began to feel resistance. He wouldn’t put any more in. he didn’t want to break Neal, after all. Not really.

Neal's fingernails scraped against the floor of the van and Peter smirked at him and grabbed his cock. It was so hot, the skin so tight. Slow strokes promised pleasure and never delivered. Neal writhed and shook, and the excess chain made the most pleasant of noises as it shifted, metal on metal.

Jerking Neal with one hand, Peter grabbed the length of chain and tugged, a short, sharp pull that had Neal crying out and two links escaping him.

"Fuck." Neal's head lolled from side to side. "Fuck, fuck. More."

Peter leaned down and kissed the inside of Neal's thigh. Neal was so tan there and Peter hated that it meant somehow, somewhere, someone had seen that thigh, bared to the sun and soaking in its warmth. But this… Neal's hole, that was his alone.

He tugged again and again, the chain exiting Neal's body in torturous increments. Neal's cock stayed hard the entire time, even when, at the end, Peter _pulled_ and all at once the chain left Neal empty.

Peter was quick to fill him. He only took a moment to lube himself before hooking Neal's legs over his arms and thrusting inside. They both gasped—Neal was _cold_. The chain had stolen his heat and god, for a moment, it was like fucking a dead body. Peter shivered and pounded Neal to warm him up. It only took a few moments before Neal was as hot as ever, and Peter kissed him to get rid of that horrible image.

Neal kissed him back, desperate and needy and finally, finally sloppy. Neal was clearly frustrated with his inability to move much, and Peter revelled in his powerlessness. And his silence. If only he'd learned earlier how to make Neal shut up and be still.

Neal came first, close as he was. He went limp after, and his eyes were glassy. Peter finished quickly, knowing he was losing him. When he came, it was with the sensation of cleansing Neal. He always replaced whatever object he fucked Neal with with his own cock. That was the way it was supposed to be.

After, when Peter's dick slipped out and his come followed, Neal tried to roll away, to sit up, to leave. Peter had him, though. He held on as Neal pretended not to be affected, pretended that it was Peter and not him that needed care.

"Time to go home," Peter said after a time, checking his watch. Their shift was up; they'd be replaced soon. Next time they should probably pay more attention—but Neal would just come from nowhere with a clue he couldn’t explain that would end up solving the case anyway, so he supposed it didn’t matter.

"Just one minute," Neal said. Though his voice was perfectly steady, his hands shook on Peter's arms as he stopped him from getting up. It was the closest Neal would come to admitting need when they weren’t fucking.

Peter smiled and hugged Neal to his chest. They were getting there.

 

-end-


End file.
